


Easy As It Looks

by secondhandact, technicolorCarbon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Drunk Sex, Incest, M/M, Molestation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stridercest - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact, https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorCarbon/pseuds/technicolorCarbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have the hots for your kid brother.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your name is Dirk Strider, and if you get your way, your kid brother's eighteenth birthday is going to end with a bang <i>and</i> a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy As It Looks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gendersquare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gendersquare/gifts).



Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have the hots for your kid brother.

You’re only a year older than him and you’d been held back in the sixth grade, which meant that you got to see every step he took through his high school career. He was a ladykiller, your brother—every broad in a five mile radius had the hots for him—which was a shame, because it seemed he had eyes only for people of the same sex. In the little Texan town you called home, this would have been a death sentence for anyone else; but he was _Dave Strider_ , and even the fact that he had you to blight his record meant nothing in the face of his brilliance. He was just _too cool_. He knew how to play bass (so cool), was a photographer ( _so_ cool), and spun his own sick beats on the turntables your eldest brother had left collecting dust in the basement. On top of that, he was suave. Charismatic. He had charm for days, somehow concealed in his pokerface and his weird, convoluted wit.

You didn’t understand why people wanted him so bad. What you wanted was to **be** him. All the social graces you lacked, he had in spades, and for the first two years of high school, you hated him for it. Your one good friend had tried to coach you through it, giving you tips and pointers on how to be cool and suave. Roxy managed, but even after endless lessons, you were no closer to understanding what people wanted, and eventually you’d both given up. You would never be one of the cool kids. That space was reserved for your brother.

It didn’t mean you couldn’t watch him, though. And you did. You watched everything he did. The first time John had spent the night, you’d hidden in his closet, and it was then—with Dave’s knees over his head and John sucking at his throat and your hand fumbling at the front of your pants—that you’d realized with a sudden shock that you didn’t just want to be Dave. You wanted to have him, in every way that you possibly could. 

That day, your relationship with him turned around. Like magic, he forgave you every wrong you’d ever committed, and allowed you to slide easily into the role of ‘backup’ when it came to how he approached the world. After all, you were brothers.

* * *

On his eighteenth birthday, you’d offered to take him out. The job you’d picked up when you were sixteen had earned you a clunker of a truck a year later, which meant you could drive, and you wouldn’t even have to call a cab. Besides, it was the middle of the week and his friends could have some big blowout bash on Saturday. They were, you whispered in tones of utmost confidence, already planning it, and he wouldn’t want to spoil their big plans, right? Besides, the two of you needed some one-on-one time. What better way to spend it than with you sneaking him drinks you bought on your fake ID all night? And everyone knew you shouldn’t go to a bar alone in east Texas, not when you were a skinny teenager fresh out of high school. He needed someone he could trust, you’d told him. And besides, you’d been barhopping for a whole year and nothing bad had happened to you. Clearly you knew what you were doing. He’d agreed, because he knew he could trust you.

He suspected nothing.

Everything was _perfect._

* * *

True to your word, you keep the drinks coming throughout the night. Half of them, you don’t even buy. Once you tell queens that it’s his birthday, they sweep him up in the night, and by the time he collapses back in the booth you claimed in the corner of the club, you can smell the alcohol on him from a foot and a half away. He drapes his arm over your shoulder, grinning brightly at you, and when he leans in to shout in your ear (to be heard over the music, of course), you’re painfully aware of the fact that his lips are close enough to taste. It doesn’t matter. You don’t hear a word he says, and he’s swept away in the next moment by one of the cute little twinks that pals around with the queens.

You watch him dance away with a sinking feeling, hoping tonight won’t be the waste it’s starting to look like.

Your mind changes completely when he slides into your lap two hours later, dragging his finger over your cheek. ‘’Lo, handsome.”

If you thought he was drunk before, he’s clearly _hammered_ now. You’re not about to say so, though. Not with your little brother rocking himself against you and his arms twining around your neck. “Hi there,” you respond, letting your hands settle on his hips. 

He hiccups, leaning forward. This time, his lips do brush your ear, and you shiver. “It’s my birthday,” he informs you. 

“So it is.” Your hands are creeping over the hem of his pants, giving his ass a squeeze. He actually giggles. “What do you want for your birthday?”

He nuzzles at your cheek. “Whatever y’wanna gimme.”

He’s wasted, and you don’t care. You aren’t about to pass up opportunity when it plants itself (drunk and disorderly) in your lap. It doesn’t occur to you that he might have mistaken you for someone else in the flickering light of the club. It starts off with a kiss, and you think that the circumstances of said kiss are so unbearably ironic that you might choke, even if he wasn’t grinding himself shamelessly against your lap while his tongue fought its’ way into your mouth. It doesn’t matter. You’re _kissing Dave_ , and he tastes like strawberry ginger-ale and whiskey sour, and it isn’t at all the unpleasant combination you thought it would be. 

When he pulls away, he’s panting, but smiling. “Y’know, you look like my brother.” Poor kid can’t manage more than a half-mumble, and you bite down on a snicker as he slides unsteadily out of your lap. “I gotta pee,” he announces, before weaving his way through the crowd, towards the bathroom. It’s out of concern for his well-being that you follow after him. He’s too drunk to be left to his own devices for very long. 

You don’t go as far as to follow him _into_ the bathroom, but he does almost run you over when he exits. He’s lucky that your hands are there to catch him when he nearly topples over, and he blinks up at you, hiccuping. “Think we should go.” His words are just as slurred as they had been when he’d been wiggling himself on your lap. 

“Sure. It’s your night.” What sort of man would you be if you left him alone in a club, where just any asshole could take advantage of him? No. Better he’s with you. He can _trust_ you. That’s why you’re the chaperone of this little venture, right? 

He even says as much, when he’s leaning on your shoulder and you’re half-carrying him to the truck. “Glad I came out with you.” 

You bite back on the smile that’s threatening to give away all your plans. “I’m glad you did, too.”

“Was a good birthday.”

“Birthday ain’t over yet, lil’ bro.”

“Did you get th’number of that guy I was kissin’?”

You can’t hold it back anymore. You laugh. “Yeah. I got his number. Bet you n’ him will be bumpin’ uglies before the week is out, knowing your skill.” Or before the night’s over, if you have your way. You’ve been waiting way too long for this chance to let it slip by.

* * *

By the time you’re pulling into the driveway of your modest one-bedroom apartment, Dave’s had the chance to sleep off some of his drunk. Not as much as you thought, however, because when you throw the truck into park, it still takes you a couple shakes to wake him up. “Hey. We’re home.”

He grunts at you, and your eyes draw a line down the length of his body. It’s hard not to reach out and touch him, but he’s got both eyes open, now, and you aren’t stupid enough to jump him when his first/only instinct would be to lash out and question later. “C’mon. Gonna make me carry you?”

There’s another grunt, and you smile. You’re not gonna complain about carrying him. It means you get to control where he ends up. Unfortunately, by the time you come around to the opposite side of the cab, he’s sitting up, eyes wide open, and he rolls his eyes heavily at you when you yank the door open. Again, your eyes are drawn to the shape of him, to the way his shirt rides up when he leans over the center console, groping for your forgotten phone. Cautiously, you let your fingertips trail over that exposed sliver of pale skin, holding your breath as you watch him shiver. 

All he does is shoot you a startled look over his shoulder, though. “Tryn’a focus. Y’think this is as easy as it looks?” he demands, though there’s not the bite in his tone that you were expecting.

You leave your hand there, resting idly on his hip. “By all means,” you murmur, well aware that you sound distant. (Probably because you are, because you’re touching him and less than an hour ago you were kissing him, and you can’t think of anything else right now.) “I’ll try to keep from distracting you.”

When his fingers finally close around your phone, he lets out a triumphant shout and damn near flings himself into an upright position. It’s only by saving grace of your lingering fingertips that you’re able to catch him before he slams his face against your dash. Unaware of the fact that you just saved him from a broken nose, he waves your phone in your face, nearly dropping it as he does so. When he miraculously catches it again, he grunts, as though you’re the whole reason it was ever falling in the first place. He actually sticks his tongue out at you when he shoves it into your hand. “Hold on’yr fuckin’ phone next time, asshole.”

If you rolled your eyes any harder, you’re pretty sure they’d fall out of your head. “If I wasn’t carting your drunk ass around, maybe I could be worried about my phone.”

The sound he makes might be some form of argument if any those grumbles were actually words, and he’s sliding his arms around you. You’re pretty sure one of those sounds was meant to be ‘ _sleep_ ’ and another was ‘ _shuddup_ ', but you aren’t paying too much attention, because his lips are moving (idly, sure, but they’re still there, soft and warm) against your neck, and you run your fingers up the back of his shirt, tracing the protrusion of his spine through the fabric of his shirt.

You decide that going inside might be more trouble than it’s worth.

When you press a kiss to that space behind his jaw, he stiffens, making your stomach clench. When John had kissed him there, he’d moaned like a bitch in heat. “Dirk,” he starts, and the tone of his voice is a protest, but you’re well aware that it’s less than skin deep.

“Shh,” you soothe, thumbing over his lower lip and cupping his jaw gently. “C’mon. I know you like that. Quit fighting, just roll with it.” Insistently, you press another, slightly firmer kiss to the same spot, this time with the barest hint of teeth behind it. Dave’s breath hitches in his throat and you can feel his pulse quickening under your fingers, telling you that he wants this as much as you do, despite the fact that he’s squirming away from your touch, edging back into the passenger seat. It’s easy to brush that aside with a knee between his still-spread thighs and a hand on the center of his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing.” His voice is flat, and despite the fact that there’s less slur to them than there was a minute ago, his gaze is still unfocused enough that you’re not even the slightest bit concerned, even when he wraps his hand around your wrist, fingers digging in as you press him back into the center console. 

You settle your weight over his hips, grinding down with a vaguely inquisitive arch of your brow. “You’re not stupid, Dave, just drunk.” 

Watching the realization dawn in his eyes is a uniquely satisfying experience. It doesn’t stop him him from fighting, though, and his hips jerk hard enough that you lose your balance for a second and have to steady yourself with a hand on the dashboard. The moment of uncertainty doesn’t make you any less observant, though. He might be angry, but he’s still drunk, which means it’s easy to see his strike coming a mile away, and you catch his wrist effortlessly, twisting it sharply until his fist unclenches and Dave hisses softly in pain. 

Still, he doesn’t give up. “Get off me,” he grits out, legs kicking uselessly beneath you, out the still-open door of the truck. “I swear to fuckin’ god, Dirk—”

You backhand him across the face without thinking, and the crack echoes about the truck’s cab deafeningly. The force behind it is startling, to you and Dave both. Even during a strife, you check your blows so nobody ends up with a concussion. There was none of that kindness here. You’d hauled off and hit him as hard as you could manage. Temper getting the best of you. Stupid, all things considered. What better way to lose your advantage than beating him up? You want him to love you, to crave you, to _need you_ the way you need him. Not this. You don’t want it to have to hurt. You don’t want to have to _force_ him. 

The stupid aviators he hides behind clatter to the footwell, and it’s as much an indicator of his submission as his sudden stillness is. The red irises blinking up at you are dazed and hazy, and you lick your lips, dragging a thumb over the slow trickle of blood working its way down his chin.

“Beautiful.”

His breath quickens, but this time, you know it’s not pleasure that’s got his blood hot. It’s hard not to backhand him again, now that you know how pretty he is when he’s in pain. You settle for stroking his cheek with the back of your hand, smiling when he flinches. At least he isn’t struggling anymore.

“Are you going to be a good birthday boy and undo your pants for me, or am I going to have to do it myself?”

You don’t have to look; the clink of a belt buckle is enough of an answer. He’s smart, your little brother, for someone who got so drunk without a single consideration for the consequences. Of course, you were the one making sure his consequences weren’t as dire as they could have been. Tonight could have been much, much worse. “Leave ‘em on, though. Don’t want the neighbors to catch you ass-naked in the parking garage, do you?”

He mutters something about how you _’wouldn’t get caught at all if you weren’t molestin’ him in the fuckin’ truck’_ , but he’s quick to shut his mouth when you catch his jaw in your hand. “You’re gorgeous,” you inform him, leaning down until your lips are hardly a breath apart, taking a second to admire the dusting of freckles over his face. “But I _will_ hit you again.” You squeeze his jaw with bruising intensity, and he hisses in pain. “Got it?”

You can almost see the gears turning in that head of his, calculating his odds. You already know what the outcome will be. In close quarters, with only his face as a viable target and your knee pressing insistently between his legs, all he’ll get from struggling is more damage. More embarrassing, painful, hard-to-hide and even harder to explain bruises. Strifing doesn’t bring these kinds of marks, and everyone you both hold near and dear knows it. And what’s he going to do? Tell people that you’d pinned him down and touched him in all the ways he wanted you to? You’ve got the upper hand here, and you know it. In a few seconds, you’re sure he’ll come to the same conclusion.

Still, you dig your nails into his flesh when he takes his time responding, just to be an asshole. It prompts a low, pained sound in the back of his throat. “Sorry, what?”

His eyes (angry, still clouded with drink and who knows what else) roll towards the windshield, but his lips still shape the words you’re looking for, muttered with low fury. “Got it.”

“Excellent,” you respond, releasing his jaw and patting his cheek gently. “Now come here and give us a kiss.”

The shudder that runs the entire length of his body is impossible to miss, especially given your position, but at just a touch of prompting (a hand anywhere near his throat is surprisingly effective, as it so happens), he goes still again, eyes fixed on your face. “When I ask you to do something for me, I want it done immediately.”

Again, he doesn’t answer, though this time he obeys without protest by tipping his head back. As much as you’d like to call out this newfound habit of his wordless obedience, you’d rather take a moment to savor the feel of his lips on yours. After a moment of torture, his lips part - though only by a fraction - and you deepen the kiss, forcing his mouth open with pressure directed at the split between his teeth and running your tongue over his lips teasingly. It would all be very sweet, if he’d just quit _resisting_. His stubborn refusal to let himself enjoy this is fucking _infuriating_ , and you fist a hand in soft blond hair, pulling hard; it prompts a whine that bounces off the molded plastic roof of the interior.

“Dirk.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice that you elect to ignore, slipping your free hand past the waist of his (ridiculous) skintight jeans and cupping his ass. If he’s going to keep pretending that he doesn’t like this then you’re going to pretend that him liking this doesn’t matter. In response, he shoves uselessly at your shoulders. “Stop.”

You squeeze in a way that’s sure to leave bruises, relishing the way he squirms away from your hand. The kiss you grace his forehead with is a tender reward, and your mouth curves into a wicked smile against his skin. “Your mouth is saying no, but that’s the only part of you that is.” You cup the bulge in the front of his pants. “Or am I reading this wrong?”

Dave looks stricken, though you don’t know if it’s the fact that his treacherous cock is hard or the fact that you noticed that’s making his eyes widen. “Take your hands off me.” His voice wavers unconvincingly as he speaks, and your eyes trace the shape of his mouth as he licks his lips anxiously. “I don’t want this. And neither should you.”

“Liar.” You can feel your anger rising to the surface again, and you release his hair in favor of resting your hand against his throat. His crimson eyes flash to your face, and you’re delighted to realize he’s afraid. (Good. He should be.) “You want this. You want it so bad you’re already hard for me, and I haven’t even _touched you_.”

He shakes his head, which just makes you angrier, and you dig your nails into his throat. He _has_ to know it’s true, just like you know it’s true. “I know exactly what you like,” you snarl against his ear. Wincing, he tries to turn away, but the hold you’ve got on his neck stops him from going far, and you continue. “Used to watch you all the time, and you didn’t even fucking notice. Too used to the whole world watching you to catch one more set of eyes. Don’t try to _lie to me_ , Dave.”

He makes a pathetic sound when you squeeze his airway shut and cut off his breathing, but it only spurs you onward. _Fuck_ him. You’re doing what he likes, catering to his stupid selfish whims, you held back for so long because he wasn’t _ready_ to accept it, and now he has the nerve to _lie to you_?!

Dave’s nails have dealt a few good scratches to the backs of your hands—you’re bleeding in a few places, you note distantly—but his struggles are beginning to die off, and you bare your teeth as you watch him sluggishly raise his hand to your forearm for a last, sad shove. 

The sight of his eyes closing extinguishes your rage with a swiftness, and you drag your hands away from his throat, stroking his cheek. He sucks in a ragged breath with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man and coughs, hard enough you’re concerned he’s going to do actual damage to his throat. “Fuck,” he manages amidst the volley of ragged sounds. You think for sure he’s finally calming down, but he swats at you without regard for where it lands (your chest, ineffectively) and tries to wipe the stream of tears from his eyes. “Fuck _you_. Don’t _touch me_.”

In response, you run a possessive hand down his chest to the waist of his pants, just to prove that you can, and he shoots you a fiery glare through watery eyes. When he squirms beneath your touch, you sigh. You tried to be nice. You’d done everything you possibly could to show Dave that he could trust you, that you were the person he should be doing things with. Clearly, he hasn’t learned anything. Clearly, you’re gonna have to do this the hard way. You hadn’t wanted to do this the hard way; but it wasn’t like he was leaving you much choice, was he?

This time, when you backhand him, it’s hard enough that you feel his teeth click together, and the sound he makes is open-mouthed agony. Once again, you catch his jaw, applying pressure to the joints until he’s whimpering, jerking his gaze forcefully back to your face. Meeting his eyes with your own, you bring your knuckles with deliberate slowness to your lips, kissing his blood away from your skin. “I don’t want to do that again,” you inform him. “Don’t make me.”

“Bullshit, you sick fuck.” There’s a waver in his voice, one he’s trying desperately to mask with his own anger. You notice it, though—you notice everything about Dave, especially the things he thinks nobody sees—and it’s the reason you don’t hit him again, for all that his sass is making you want to. “Do what you want.”

You drop your hands to his waist, yanking his boxers away. Dave swallows down a sob, and you pretend not to notice, to save him his dignity. What he’s got left of it, anyway. “Dave, all I want is to make you feel good.” You settle your hand on his shaft (still hard; you’re beginning to suspect that, for all that he’s protesting, he’s getting off on this just as much as you are), stroking it in a mimicry of the way you’ve seen Dave stroke himself. “Don’t you see that?”

With your hand no longer holding his jaw, he’s stopped looking at you, and as you wiggle his jeans the rest of the way off and unfasten your own—a feat easier said than done, considering you’re reluctant to leave his cock alone, now that he’s given up the fight—his shoulders begin to shake. Since you’re a good brother, you’ll let him have this moment of self-crisis uninterrupted. Actually, this moment of stillness gives you the opportunity to reach over, pop open the glove box and snag out the lube you’d stored there for just such an occasion. Granted, you’d been hoping he’d be a little more willing and you would’ve had the chance to at _least_ suck his dick before you got down n’ dirty, but some things just can’t be helped. By the time you’re slathering it over your own dick (and god, you’re so hard it fucking _hurts_ , you don’t even risk giving yourself a few strokes because you don’t wanna give away the gold too quickly), he’s not even sniffling, though he does gasp when you press against him.

"What, not even a finger t'loosen shit up?" (Dave and his goddamn puns.)

You make a _tsk_ 'ing sound at him, gripping his thighs tighter and lifting his hips so you can actually see his hole. "Dave, really. When was the last time you actually prepped for sex?" He's so pretty down here. Always takes care to shave, as if anyone he sleeps with is ever going to take the time to appreciate it properly. (You do.)

"Don’t see how that..."

He trails off as he realizes that you already know the answer, even if he doesn’t want to give it.

You continue, as though he’d never spoken. "I was surprised you even bothered." His flush is hardly a distraction from you sliding your wet head against his puckered hole. “I could, if you wanted,” you offer, as though it’s hardly a thought. You aren’t expecting an answer, so it’s not much of a disappointment when Dave sinks his teeth into the palm of his hand and pinches his eyes shut instead.

You ease into him until your balls are flush against his taint and groan involuntarily, because for all that you’d spent months, weeks, _years_ dreaming about this, you’d never thought it would feel so good to actually be buried inside your baby brother.

“You’re so fucking _tight_ ,” you purr against his throat, turning to kiss and suck at his collarbone. (Just the way he likes.) "No idea how you manage it— _nnh_ —” You shift, canting your hips back and sliding forward again. “—when you’re such a _whore_.”

It takes approximately thirty seconds to establish a rhythm that suits both of you, and then you’re fucking him proper, a hand on each hip to help steady him as he rocks back into you. There’s a seatbelt buckle digging uncomfortably into your knee, but it’s got nothing on the pure pleasure of the way your brother feels, clenching and unclenching around your aching cock. Dave moans; his breath hitches like he’s been caught in some grievous error, and you dig your nails into his thighs, dragging until you break the skin and he makes another delicious sound just like it. He’s flushed from head to toe with exertion and pleasure and god knows what else, freckles barely standing out against the pink. Groaning, you bite his lips adoringly, one hand running through his hair to bring him up for a deeper kiss.

He pants when you release him, and you slow your rhythm, drawing out every movement until his muscles are threaded through with tension and frustration.

“You look like such a slut,” you breathe, and both of Dave’s hands fist against the worn leather of the driver’s seat.

“Please,” he begs. You doubt he even knows what he’s asking for anymore, though you bet at this point he’s far enough gone that it’s at least an equal opportunities game between _stop_ and _more_.

You take pity on him and quicken your pace, now fucking him hard enough that he slides back a few inches on the seats with every rock of your hips. Poor Dave, all drunk and pretty. Too pretty for his own good, as it happens, considering the position it’s put him in, drunk and on his back in the front seat of an old pickup truck and being fucked senseless. Your thoughts are hardly a distraction from the pleasure of screwing your little brother, and you readjust your grip on his hips, biting down on a smirk when he clenches involuntarily around you in response. Bracing one forearm against the seat, you shift his hips, angling yourself upward until he rewards your efforts with a choked cry that melts into a sob. It’s your name on his lips that makes you painfully aware of how close you are, the way he tempers it with pain and need equally, and you wrap your still-lubed hand around his cock, stroking in sloppy time with your thrusts. You want him to enjoy this as much as you do, and with the stifled little cries he’s choking on, you’re almost certain he is. You told him he wanted it. You’re not wrong very often.

The only warning you get before he comes is a twitch of his hips, and then he clenches so tightly on you that it’s hard to move, a strangled shout escaping him as he bites desperately down on his forearm and makes a mess of your hand. You’re grinding your hips against him and cursing fluidly into his shoulder, and then you follow after him with a moan, your orgasm coming with a sudden rush as you sink your teeth into Dave’s shoulder, biting so hard that you taste blood on your tongue.

For a few moments, the two of you are still, the truck echoing with the wet sound of panting brothers. It’s harder to regain the strength to move than you expected it to be, but it’s well worth the effort, because you’re rewarded with the sight of your brother, post-coitus and whimpering, sprawled in the front seat of your truck. (In your arms.)

Softly, lovingly, you brush Dave’s hair out of his face, peppering his flushed cheeks and throat with kisses, over and over again until his breathing evens out and all that’s left of his pain are the lingering streaks of tears on his cheeks. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” you whisper, kissing the cup of his ear. Already, you’re pulling your pants back up. “Told you I knew everything that you liked, didn’t I?”

He breaks, tears once again spilling from his red eyes and you’re there, just like you always will be, to cradle him as he cries, to hold him close and keep him safe, and he doesn’t even fight when you drop your coat over his bare ass and tug him into your arms so you can carry him upstairs. He only turns his face against your shirt.

Honestly, he was bound to get himself into trouble like this sooner or later, with those gorgeous collarbones and pretty hips. You both know it. This would have happened eventually. Really, he’s lucky _you’re_ his rapist, and not some unwashed, STI-ridden homeless man or some 40-something washed-up old drunk at the bar. At least you’re gentle. At least you’ll make sure to he’s safely home, after: tuck him into bed, take off his shoes, even leave some advil and a bottle of water on the nightstand for the hangover he’ll have. (And the aches and pains, you guess, considering the number of blows he’d been dealt through the course of the night. A shame, really. It could have gone so much better.) At least this, at least that.

At least you love him.

  


**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for **gendersquare**.


End file.
